


Never Have I Ever

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Romance, assume that these two are still oblivious about the way the other feels about them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 12:03:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20796341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: A demon, an angel, a witch, several bottles of whiskey, and a 6000 year old secret. What could possibly go wrong?





	Never Have I Ever

“Never have I ever …” Aziraphale glances around the table, pausing on Anathema, poised with shot glass in hand, then Crowley, sinking into the yellow-and-brown paisley tablecloth, having already polished off an entire bottle of whiskey on his own and starting in on a fresh Jack Daniels “… plotted to overthrow King Richard the III!”

“Jesssusss Chrissstmasss!” Crowley hisses, picking up his shot glass and throwing back his whiskey, filling it immediately after and throwing that one back as well.

“Wait!” Anathema says. “You only have to take _one_ shot for that!”

“Technically, I have to take three since that’s how many tries it took to dethrone the bastard.”

Aziraphale giggles as Crowley sloppily sucks down his final shot. He’s slightly less sloshed than his demon compatriot, but only just. Crowley’s eyes have begun to cross, and he’s toppled out of his chair twice.

A dozen more shots and Aziraphale may succeed in knocking the idiot out.

That would be a first.

“You know, I appreciate the fact that the two of you have been around since the dawn of time, but the things you guys pick are both obscure and bizarrely specific.”

“So …?”

“_So_, the point of _Never Have I Ever_ is that you choose things that could apply to _anyone_. But the two of you seem to be on a vendetta to get one another wasted.”

“Fine, book girl,” Crowley drawls. “Let’s try this one on for size. Never have I ever … finished college.”

Crowley and Aziraphale both turn to Anathema - Crowley grinning like a jackal, Aziraphale with a snarky eyebrow raised. Anathema rolls her eyes and downs her shot. “Touché.”

“Congratulations! Ya got one!” Crowley says smugly. “May we continue? Never have I ever ...” The demon’s eyes glow with delight as they bounce from Aziraphale to Anathema … then back to Aziraphale “… sunken a ship!”

“Wha---what the Devil are you talking about?” Aziraphale barks, but he quickly reconsiders. “Are we talking a rowboat? Or an ocean liner?”

“Steamshi_p_.” Crowley pops the _p_, making Aziraphale’s head ring.

Aziraphale peers into Crowley’s eyes, silently enquiring, but he tuts in disgust when he figures it out. “You’re not going on about the _Waratah_, are you?”

“Oi! That was _mah_ ship and you sank it!”

“I did no such thing! I _commandeered_ it because I knew _you_ were going to sink it!”

Crowley drops his head back on his shoulders and groans loudly – too loudly for drunk Aziraphale. “I already told you! No one would have gotten hurt!”

“No. You were going to do what you _always_ do! Abandon those poor men on some deserted island with no way off! It was the 1900s! They had no cellular phones! No one would have known where they were!”

“And …?”

“They had _families_, Crowley!”

“Their fault. Not mine. What did you do with them anyway?”

“I reunited them with their loved ones, wiped their memories, and reassigned them to secure locations. It all turned out fine.”

“Still …” Crowley sniffs “… seeing as no one’s ever found the wreckage, it’s considered a sun_ken_ shi_p_ (_hard k and another popped p_).” He crosses his arms over his chest, affecting a superior pout. “Drink up.”

“I don’t see how that works in your favor but whatever helps you sleep at night. But you’d better take a shot, too.”

“Why’s that?”

“You mean to tell me that in 6000 years you’ve never sunken a ship?”

Crowley’s eyes pop slightly. “Quite right, quite right. Forgot about that.”

Aziraphale downs his shot, then reaches for the whiskey to refill it. He grabs the bottle around the belly and lifts, nearly tossing it across the bookshop when it comes off the table too easily. He brings it up to his swimming eyes and peeks around the label to get a look inside. “This one’s empty, I’m afraid.” He puts it back and rises unsteadily to his feet. “We’re going to need another.”

“Hold up!” Anathema grabs Aziraphale’s wrist and stops him. “We need to change the parameters of this game somewhat if we’re going to keep playing! I’ve taken maybe three shots to your, oh, let’s call it _one-hundred-and-fifty_!”

“You’re just sore … because you’re losing,” Crowley accuses with a belch in between.

“Wait wait wait …” Aziraphale slurs.

“Wait _what_?”

“Are we sure she’s losing? What exactly _is_ the object of this game? Does the first person who falls down drunk win? Or does the person who remains sober win?”

“I …” Crowley squints his eyes painfully as he gives it a think. “I think it’s … it’s probably … oh, I don’t care! She’s being a sore loser! _That’s_ why she wants to change the rules!”

“But you don’t even know what the rules _are_!”

“Don’t care. Things were going fine before she _(*mumble mumble mumble mumble*)_ _sore loser_ …”

Aziraphale surmises that his demon friend is grumpy because he thinks he’s winning, but Anathema has a point. They’re supposed to be having fun, and a game isn’t fun if you don’t get the chance to play. “Change _how_, my dear?” he asks her in an attempt to smooth things over.

“First off, anything that happened before the 90s is strictly _off limits_.”

“The 1790s?” Crowley asks, swaying like a snake as he tries to figure out which of the three Anathemas he’s seeing is the real one.

“The _1990s_.”

“Pffft! The 1990s were _dull_!”

“Plus, be vague. I mean, believe it or not, there are things I have done in the broad sense that you may not have …”

“Not likely …”

“… but never have I ever …” She rolls her eyes to the ceiling, trying to come up with the most ridiculous thing she can think of in short order “… sold Napoleon Bonaparte’s dismembered penis on the black market.”

“Ha! Cheers!” Crowley crows, snapping his fingers to refill Aziraphale’s glass. They hold up their shots ceremoniously, then drink them down, slamming their empty glasses on the table in unison when they’re done.

“Good lord! You two can’t be serious!?”

“I sold it first,” Crowley admits. “But he sold it by accident trying to return it.”

“How do you sell a penis _by_ _accident_?”

“It’s a long story,” Aziraphale says sternly, the thin line his mouth makes clearly translating his distress at the mention of his faux pas, “and I’d rather not go into it. But all right. From now on, we’ll be _vague_.”

“Great!” Anathema smiles triumphantly. “Let’s start over.”

“In that case, it might help if we were a little less sozzled,” Crowley suggests.

“Right.” Aziraphale clunks a second empty whiskey bottle on the table beside the first. “Fill’er up, Crowley.”

“What?” Anathema watches wide-eyed and grossed out as Crowley strains, bending over at the waist, white-knuckling the seat of his chair between his legs, making the most revolting noise imaginable, the level of the liquid in the bottle rising with every grunt. Aziraphale, in contrast, is much quieter with regard to his own _evacuating_, but the whole process between the two is far too reminiscent of something else entirely.

It almost puts Anathema off her drink.

“That’s your guys’ bottle now,” she says, getting up to retrieve a brand new bottle from a nearby shelf.

“Obviously,” Crowley grumbles.

She cracks the cap on a fresh bottle of Jack and returns to her seat. “Okay, since I’m still not convinced you guys fully grasp the concept of this game, I’ll start.” She sits up straight and clears her throat as if preparing to make an important announcement. “I’ll make it simple. Never have I ever been rock climbing.”

“Ugh!” Crowley drinks his shot, revolted at how banal her selection is. Of all the things she could have chosen, she went with _rock climbing_. What? Did _baking_ seem like too much of a stretch?

When he’s done with his drink, he notices Aziraphale’s glass has gone untouched. He glares at the angel, who stares back in confusion.

“What?”

“You’ve been rock climbing. Take a drink.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Whaddya call that big stone gate ‘round the Garden of Eden?”

“A _gate_, not a rock.”

“If it’s made of rock, I’ll allow it,” Anathema declares.

“But I didn’t climb it.”

“You were on top of it.”

“Yes, but I just sort of … appeared there. And after I gave away my sword, I miracled my way back up.”

“Ya climbed a rock. Take a drink.”

Aziraphale sighs and raises his glass. “Whatever.”

Anathema beams. “There. Isn’t this fun?”

“_Loads_,” Aziraphale says. Crowley sputters obscenely in response.

“I’ll pick another one,” Anathema offers. “Never have I ever stolen anything.”

“Oi!” Crowley gestures at Aziraphale after he sucks down his shot and the angel hasn’t moved. “You need to drink!”

“Whatever for?” Aziraphale asks, righteously offended.

“You’ve stolen stuff before! I’ve _seen_ you!”

“I’ve _acquired_. I haven’t stolen.”

“Same diff! Right, book girl?”

“I’d say so.”

“Name one thing I’ve stolen. Go ahead.”

“You stole that … that … wooden chalice _thingy_ from the Knights Templar! And they were on your side!”

“I’ll have you know that _wooden chalice thingy_, as you so smartly put it, was the Cup of Christ! And I was moving it to a safe location. I tried to explain that to the chap on duty, but he couldn’t hear me.”

“He was six-hundred-and-seventy-three years old! He was deaf as a stump!”

“Yes but he looked amazing for his age, didn’t he?”

“After you took the cup, he _died_!”

“It was in the job description. He understood his fate,” Aziraphale says, dismissing the demon’s commentary with a wave.

“Right. And I’m sure that was a _huge_ comfort to him!”

“I couldn’t say. Anyway, you haven’t proven anything. I have not stolen.”

“Fine,” Crowley growls, pouring his shot. “_My_ turn. Never have I ever _killed a six-hundred-and-seventy-three year old knight_!”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Anathema waggles a scolding finger. “That’s against the rules!”

“It’s _necessary_.”

“Of course it is, you sour serpent,” Aziraphale mutters, draining his glass. “My turn. Never have I ever nearly mowed down innocent pedestrians whilst behind the wheel of a vehicle traveling 90 when it should only go 30 tops!”

“What did we say about specific?” Anathema says.

“I don’t know. I think that could apply to _anybody,” _Aziraphale returns icily. “Have you seen the way you ride a bicycle?”

Crowley drinks his shot, mimicking Aziraphale while he does. When his glass hits the tablecloth, Aziraphale refills it. “Good of you to take your medicine, my dear,” he says. “Now whose turn is it to think of something?”

“_I_ will,” Anathema says. “Someone needs to get this game back on track. Never have I ever worn high heels.”

“How high?” Crowley asks.

“I’ll say … four inches.”

With shaking heads and irritated sighs, Aziraphale and Crowley take a shot.

“Never have I ever ridden bare back,” Crowley says. This time Aziraphale and Anathema drink.

“Never have I ever eaten a rodent,” Aziraphale says. Crowley drinks his shot, snickering into his glass.

“What’s so funny?” Aziraphale asks.

“You picked one you’ve done, so you have to take a drink, too.”

“What? I’ve never eaten a …!” Crowley nods through Aziraphale’s protesting and the angel goes pale. “_When_?”

“1683. At that little restaurant in Naples. That crooked asshat of a chef wat served everyone rat and claimed it was chicken?”

Aziraphale goes numb, jaw slack, the abject horror growing on his face making Crowley snicker more.

“You had seconds,” he reminds him.

“Oh my Lord, you’re right!” Aziraphale’s lower lip trembles as he drinks his shot. “I’d forgotten. Though I think I forgot on purpose, to tell you the truth.”

“Don’t blame you.”

“Yikes. Okay. Never have I ever …” Anathema bites her lower lip, hemming and hawing between two questions - both of them fairly _blah_, she has to admit - when a third pops into her head that’s too good not to use, if for no other reason than to possibly get back at these two imbeciles if it lands the way she hopes it will “… had a crush on my best friend.”

Anathema half expects glaring yellow eyes behind dark lenses boring through her skull as a sulking demon reluctantly takes a drink, but Aziraphale downs his shot before anyone can reach theirs, leaving Crowley and Anathema looking at him strangely before he realizes what he’s done.

“Oh!” he squeaks when he sees two sets of eyes trained his way. “I … I was … I was in a rhythm. I don’t think I was paying attention to the question, I …” Aziraphale gulps, wiggling nervously in his seat. “Come again?”

“Oh, well, that’s all right,” Anathema says, pretending to believe him. She refills his glass and pushes it in front of him. “We’ll call a re-do. Do you want to do the honors, Crowley? Or shall I?”

Crowley doesn’t answer her. He leans towards Aziraphale, as amused as Anathema but much more invested in Aziraphale’s answer. “Never have I ever …” he says slowly, chewing each word thoroughly before it leaves his mouth, drawing Aziraphale’s full attention to it, “had a crush on my best friend.”

He stares Aziraphale down, unblinking, the angel shrinking farther and farther back as the demon inches closer, eyes locked so hard on Aziraphale’s, he can feel their hold on him like physical hands keeping him rooted to the spot. Crowley’s eyes don’t unnerve him. Not in the slightest. It’s the idea that the secret Aziraphale has held on to the longest is about to be unearthed, and by virtue of a common, vulgar drinking game.

_Whose idea was this anyway? _he thinks, mentally side-eyeing Anathema before he comes to the sobering realization that, in truth, it was _his_. He’d seen it on a TV show – the first TV show he’d watched in decades. He’d fancied it, thought it could be a lighthearted and fun way to pass the time, get to know new friends.

_Ha_.

But the longer Crowley stares at him, the more the expectant grin on the demon’s face begins to wither, and if there’s one thing Aziraphale doesn’t want, it’s Crowley’s feelings hurt.

This had to come out sooner or later. Might as well be now.

Aziraphale grabs the glass and throws it back, grimacing at a burn on the finish that has nothing to do with the alcohol. “Happy? Now you know.”

“Ecstatic.” Crowley bypasses his shot altogether, grabbing the closest bottle by the neck and downing what’s left in a single impressive chug.

Aziraphale gasps. “Are you … are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“How long?”

“How long do you think?”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows shoot up with the outlandish suspicion that he knows exactly how long. That he’s always known. “_That_ long?”

“Yes, Aziraphale. _That_ long.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think I was being subtle about it, really.” Crowley fidgets his fingers, worrying the thumbnail of his left hand with the index fingernail and thumb of his right. “I just … I figured that if you didn’t say anything about it then you probably didn’t … you know … feel the same.”

“But I did,” Aziraphale says softly. “I … I do. Feel the same.”

Crowley’s face lightens, something resembling hope lifting the corners of his mouth into a cautious smile. “Really?”

“Really.”

Crowley rises from his chair and saunters over to Aziraphale. Aziraphale starts to stand but stops when Crowley gets down on his knees, removing his glasses and tossing them aside to get an unfettered view of him as if Anathema isn’t sitting mere feet away.

“I … I thought …” Crowley starts, interrupting himself with a bittersweet cough of a laugh.

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale runs a soothing hand through the demon’s hair. “What do we do now?”

“If it’s all the same to you,” Crowley whispers, “I’d really like to kiss you.”

“I think … I’d like that, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Now that he has permission, Crowley wastes no time capturing Aziraphale’s lips with his own. After 6000 years, he’s tired of being subtle. From now on, he’s going to lay his feelings for Aziraphale on the line, out where the angel can see, and pray the important ones find their match alongside his.

Feeling like an awkward third wheel on a broken velocipede, Anathema begins gathering her things. “I’m just gonna go,” she says quietly, hopping out of her chair while demon and angel continue kissing. “Have some important, you know, witch business to get around to. I’m going to leave you two alone to … _ahem_ … talk. But we should do this again some time. It was … educational.”

“Mmm … mind how you go, my dear,” a breathless Aziraphale mumbles between kisses.

“Right,” Crowley concurs, his hand sliding up into Aziraphale’s hair and pulling him deeper.

“Okey-dokey then.” It takes several tries before Anathema verifies she has everything, hugging books, a newspaper, a scarf, and her coat to her chest as she scurries away through the stacks and shelves with a laugh in her throat when the moaning begins.


End file.
